


Who We Are

by sebbykun3



Category: Who We Are
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 16:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11234940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebbykun3/pseuds/sebbykun3
Summary: Sometimes the voices scream too loud and the thudding against the walls of my brain is too much. Sometimes ballet can't save me, sometimes life is just too much. Somehow Alexander saves me, yet he doesn't try. It's like his voice is the only thing I need to ground me.Life becomes so tedious. You wake up, boyfriend is gone for work, you avoid your piano, you eat, you sleep, do it all over again. Opal makes my life an adventure. He says I've saved him, when really it could just be the opposite.





	1. Opal

I hear them scream and I can no longer feel my heart beat. I clench at my sheets and try to focus on the sweat that rolls across my forehead. There are loud voices. I cannot determine what is being said. There is a rumbling in my head, in my hands and the voices rage on. I try to yell for help, but I choke on the words and sputter out silence. I can feel myself shake and tears slip out from under my eye sockets. I question if I have eyes in them because I cannot see anything.

People ask me why I smile so much. Doctors often question if it is a cover up for all of the psychosis and sadness, but the answer is always no. I smile because I have the ability. I smile because in the moments above my lips are trembling too much and my mind is filled with anxiety. But when I see the people I love, when I have the strength to laugh and smile, I do. I know that a time will come when I can’t. Why not take advantage of the time that I have?


	2. Alexander

Piano is soft. The keys feel like silk beneath my fingertips and the sound is a brush of feather in my chest.   
My mother always asked me to read sheet music, to at least take classes, but I refused. I always played what is inside, never another’s story. I argued that if my keyboard was mine, I could play whatever I pleased. Then she brought the grand piano home.   
I had never seen, nor played on a grand piano. “Go ahead,” she told me, distinguishing my eager eyes. That piano was my soul mate, ten year old me had decided. I played it all day, letting my fingers explore the foreign object and its beauty. The next day, my mother announced that I was not allowed to play the piano again until I learned to read sheet music.   
I was slow at first, because of my dyslexia, but as soon as I picked it up a bit, I never wanted to stop. I realized that I was wrong before. Yes, these were other’s stories, but they were beautiful works of art that I was able to read and empathize with because of that grand piano.   
That dusty grand piano sits in my apartment now. It looks old, yet unused. Worn, but abandoned. I suppose these descriptions are accurate.   
Chris is always asking me why I don’t play anymore, that I was surely a beautiful player from the stories I’ve told him. I will never tell him the truth, perhaps.


	3. Opal

I’m stretching behind the stage, getting ready for my part. This ballet is The Sleeping Beaty. I play Prince Désiré. I originally wanted to play the leading role of Aurora, but was immediately denied the request, as a male. I still tried hard to get into the character. Relating myself to the character is the best way for me to really feel the music and the ballet. I practiced for six months. My depression is so severe, some of my doctors have said that I should stop ballet just to focus on healing. However, I can’t imagine myself, my life, without ballet. My mental disorders never hinder me from my career. Dancing actually helps. When I dance, my body and my mind melts into the music and I am no longer the conventional image of Opal anymore. No one expects me to dance like I act. In the ballet world, I am elegant and strong, so different from the mess I am in reality.   
“You’re up,” Mika tells me. I stand in my pointe shoes, ready. I clear my mind as the music turns on, my cue. When I enter the stage, the audience is silent. I have swallowed their applause and their breaths. I am stunning. I am beautiful.  
It’s hard to describe how my performances go. Is it possible to explain every movement and feeling? I don’t think so. There is too much that is left unspoken in ballet to be explained. My arabesque cannot be adored totally unless seen. I wish you could see it all.  
As I’m dancing, I try not to focus on the aching of my body. Instead, I settle myself into the sound of the music, how I relate to it. Then I remember that I cannot, not really, because I’ve never been in love. I had small flings, and I loved them as people, but I never felt that strong connection that everyone defines as love. Sometimes I fear that I really have experienced it, but it’s just not as “of the essence” as I imagined.   
I stumble in my brisé volé, and I curse under my breath. I’m not focusing on the music. I take a deep breath and think. I, the prince, may have never been in love before. Aurora is my savior. I love her. It’s a deep connection. I can feel it course through my veins. Yes, I think. I fling myself into the feeling, into the vibrations.   
I think about beautiful Aurora and how much I love her, how much I want to love her. I stretch my legs across the floor and slowly lean next down next to Sleeping Beauty (or who plays her rather). I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I reach down and barely brush my lips against hers.  
She opens her eyes. I smile at her, broken. She sits up and holds on to me as I hold to her. She smiles, but it’s not real. Suddenly I realize where I am, who I am, the life I’m living. My grasp loosens around the beautiful girl I’ve spent 6 months practicing this same scene with, without crying once.   
We get into the ballet again, but I feel a little lost. Nothing like that had ever happened to me when I was dancing. I always feel so focused on the story line, the song, but never so immersed in them that I forget about reality. Things like that happen all the time when I’m at home, but not when I’m dancing. Dancing belongs to me, not my psychosis or my depression. This isn’t fair.  
I go out onto the stage at the end for my bow with Sleeping Beauty (who’s real name is Bek). I race to my car in the parking lot, trying not to take too many inhales at a time. I was supposed to stay for the banquet party, but I felt a panic come on.   
I get into my car, forgetting the drive and ending up at my apartment door, my keys fumbling in my hands. My mind is swarming. I feel a heat in my head and my stomach. I taste sourness and stress but my stomach feels less hot.   
Then my vision goes, which probably means that I’ve stuffed myself in my pillow or linens. The screaming starts in my head and I decide to sleep.

When I awake, my back aches. I push a hand beneath me. Instead of a comfortable bed, I feel the carpet shag. I sigh and unroll myself from the sheets I apparently wrapped myself in. I can feel my short, thick hair sticks up on ends from the static when I reach oxygen.   
I look around, my room is mostly left untouched besides the emptiness of my bed and the vomit in the corner of the room. I rub my greasy face with both my hands in preparation of cleaning and coming to truth with myself.   
After cleaning up the vomit, I sit on my couch next to the window. I live on the 5th floor of a loft on the Upper East Side of New York City. My successful ballet career pays for all of my finances.   
I sip on my tea and check my email. My private rarely receives anything, considering that my dad disowned me and I don’t have any close friends, but my ballet email is constantly cluttered with junk, fans, and requests.   
I check both, nothing catching my eye until I run across an unfamiliar email address on my public email. I click on it. 

Alexander Rayden Yesterday at 9:32 PM  
To: Opal Hue  
Re: Opal Hue

 

Opal Hue-

I’m sure you’re used to the abundance of fan mail in   
your mail box, but I thought I would give this a try.

My name is Alexander Rayden. Last night, I watched   
you dance on broadway as part of the audience below.  
I’m not usually one to watch ballet, but I couldn’t help  
but think that you were the most passionate dancer in  
the ballet world. I was mesmerized by your movements  
and how well you played the character. It was like you   
were really the prince. I was shocked at the beauty.

The point of this email isn’t purely to praise you (though   
that sounds like something I would do). I’m actually here  
to pitch an idea to you. If you’re not interested, I   
understand. 

You should write your own ballet. Of course, this is simply something I was thinking you could do. I, unfortunately, cannot help you. It’s just that I think... that you’re worth more than a ballet that’s already been written.

You’ll think about that, won’t you?

-Alexander Rayden

Sent from my iPhone

I stare at my laptop. I’m not sure what to do. Is this a compliment? No, it’s a suggestion, it says it right there. God, what is this?   
I pick at the keys on my laptop. I guess I... want to. I mean, it’s every ballerina and ballerino’s dream to create their own ballet, create the music and the choreography. I’ve fantasized about those kinds of things when I was younger, especially as a preteen. I would set up lights in the living room, throw on a leotard, and put on a show for anyone that would watch. Mum always smiled at my dancing. Dad refused to watch. I remember a lot of fighting between them during that time.  
I think of myself, the young boy I was. I think of the tutu mum bought me and that happy feeling I got when I saw her proud face. I close my eyes and inhale that feeling, trying to imagine it coming in as a gas and forming as a solid in my lungs. This feeling has to stay.

You’ll think about it, won’t you?


	4. Alexander

Chris convinced me to go to The Sleeping Beauty and isn’t even showing up. I sit in row 32 and sink in my seat as I realize that he isn’t going to coming. The show is about to start and Chris always has a habit of either arriving ten minutes early or not at all.  
I sigh as the lights dim. My phone buzzes. I take a quick peak before the curtain opens. 

Hey sorry i can’t make it tonight. work is hectic. love u

I don’t bother responding, just put my phone on silent and stuff it in my pocket aggressively.   
I don’t even like ballet. It was Chris’s idea to do something “new and exciting.” He’s always trying to get me to broaden my comfort zone when I’d rather sit on a couch and sip hot coffee for an evening. As my boyfriend, I love him, but sometimes I wonder why.  
I try to fall asleep as they all dance, but my mind can’t concentrate on that when I hear the piano. It keeps my heart swaying and my life awake. Even though I’ve sworn at my interest in piano, my body, my heart, my mind knows what it really loves.   
So I’m sitting there, twisting my body around to try to get a better view when the prince enters. I know nothing about ballet story lines, but I know this is The Sleeping Beauty and I know the best looking, best dressed character is most likely the prince. My eyes widen at his movements. He’s so feminine. No, he’s not masculine or feminine. He’s his own character. No, he’s not his own character, he is the prince. The newly defined prince with his own pain and love.   
I always thought that disney princes and princesses were such flat characters. Even in movies like Frozen. Each one of them just wants what’s best for themselves as well as others and/or to find true love. Then they run into some kind of external conflict and have to face some sort of reality. So when I see this round character with so much emotion in a ballet character who doesn’t even speak words... well, I’m impressed.  
I watch the dancer, unaware that I’m holding my breath. He leans down to kiss Aurora and, I swear, I see the prince cry against her cheeks. My hands are grasping my mouth and I’m not sure why.  
I feel like I’m thinking so much when the ballet is over, but I can never remember the thoughts. As the gentleman bows during the curtain call, I notice his sweaty face and jerky movements. He looks lost, distressed.   
When I get home, Chris still isn’t home. I sit on the sofa and research a bit on the ballet. 

Prince Désiré ........................... Opal Hue

I question whether Opal is a female for a second before I remember his extraordinarily masculine figure and face. I was fortunate that Chris was able to buy such good seats.  
I stare at my phone for awhile, wondering what I should do. The next step, naturally, would be to swipe out of safari and move on with my life, probably go to sleep, but my body won’t let me. I keep thinking; it’s not fair that someone so talented is forced to into a costume that isn’t their own and to act like someone their not. All of the things Opal could do if he wasn’t bounded by other professionals. It makes me angry, for some reason.  
I find Opal’s email address and send a creepy letter that I may not be able to over come for the life of me. Then I send myself to bed because I know if I don’t, I’ll stay up all night refreshing yahoo.  
I wake up with Chris in bed next to me. He must have come home late if he’s still asleep. He’s usually a “get up and go” person. It makes me sick to think about.  
I suddenly remember the night before and I stretch my arm to my night stand and open my email. One unread email. I hold my breath again.

Opal Hue 2 hours ago  
To: Alexander Rayden  
Re: Alexander Rayden

Dear Alexander,  
Wow! That’s very inspiring to hear from a fan. I  
would absolutely love to create my own ballet.  
But there are usually several people who make  
ballets, and I don’t have many friends... 

I could create the storyline, choreography, and   
costumes, but I’m not sure what I would do  
beyond that. I’m sure I could ask my mentor,   
Betty Fozner, if she could help me, but I don’t   
think she would. Maybe I could find a composer  
to help me with music... then again all the people   
I know who play instruments are already deep in their  
business careers and would probably rather die than  
help me. 

I would love for us to get together and storm up ideas  
together. I’m going to Russian Tea Room to get a drink  
at noon, if you’d like to join me. It’s off of West 57th St.  
I’ll be waiting at the entrance.

Love Always,  
Opal Hue

I stare at my phone for a bit, trying to sense the nerves in my fingertips. Is this real? If not, I like this dream. I’d love to continue in my sleep. I do not pinch myself.  
He needs someone composer? I could... play the piano. I start to think, my mind wandering into all of the corners of my brain. I know I’m getting ahead of myself.  
I look at the clock. 10:56. Shit, it’s late. I have to get ready.   
I am not a quite attractive, according to myself. No one has told me other wise, since I’ve never asked, so this is the truth I believe. I have a habit of never shaving, so I have a bit of black scruff to match my long black hair. Not that it’s terribly long, but long enough to almost cover my ears and brush against my cheeks. My straight bangs (the ones that Chris complains are always in my eyes) are longer than the hair in on the back of my head.   
I stare at myself in the mirror and try to decide what I will do with myself. Should I shave? I’d look cleaner. But I want Opal to see me for the real me, not some imaginary (cleaner looking) version of me. That answers a lot more questions I have about what I should change about my appearance. I decide that I’ll just take a shower and put on my nicest turtle neck (the black one with long sleeves).   
It’s cold out during January in New York. I wonder what the Russian Tea Room looks like. If it’s on West 57th, it’s probably fancy and expensive. I wonder if I’ll be paying for my own drink.   
I was right; it is a bit extravagant. There is a red awning with white cursive words spelling Russian Tea Room on the sides, as well as red ropes protruding from each side of the gold-rimmed door. My hands shake as I pull on the door.   
There, standing just a foot away from me inside of the entry, is a beautiful man leaned up against the glass wall of the entry way, staring at his phone that is held by his gloved hands. The man smiles at me, and I know it’s Opal. I stare. He looks better up close and un-leotarded.   
Opal smiles wider as he realizes my identity. “You must be Alexander,” he purrs, taking my hand into his own and kissing my knuckle. His lips are soft against my skin. My face is burning, I can feel.   
“Let’s go inside,” he says gesturing towards the doors. I’m not sure what evil god created this man, but I am now obligated to follow every pronunciation that slips through his lips. Damn.


End file.
